


The Thing With Feathers

by ItsClydeBitches



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon Compliant, Found Family, Good Omens Big Bang, Happy Ending, Humor, M/M, Nanny Crowley (Good Omens), POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pre-Slash, raising warlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:15:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22593124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsClydeBitches/pseuds/ItsClydeBitches
Summary: They say that a life can exist in a single day, that first impressions are lasting impressions, and that the fate of the world can turn on a dime—or a minute. A handshake and seven bottles of wine was all it took to secure the most important deal in the history of creation. Now, it’s the summer of 2013 and Crowley, along with his worrywart angel, have agreed to raise the Antichrist together.A lot can happen in just twenty-four hours.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 90





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, everyone! Two quick notes before we dive in: 
> 
> 1\. This was written for the Good Omens Big Bang (shout out to the amazing mods) so I want to start by sending a massive thank you to my artists and my beta, Addy. You can find Addy on tumblr (asideofourown.tumblr.com) or on AO3 as Asideofourown and absolutely should because this fic would be a hot mess of typos and awkward phrasing if not for them :D Sadly it looks as if one of my artists had to drop, but the other, Jules-al-c, created an absolutely stunning painting that can be found at the end of Chapter Four. You can find them on tumblr as well (jules-al-c.tumblr.com). 
> 
> 2\. I struggled with whether to use he/him pronouns for nanny!Crowley or she/her pronouns and eventually settled on he/him internally and she/her externally. Meaning, nanny!Crowley is obviously coded as a woman and the rest of the cast reads her that way—which Crowley is fine with. Crowley, meanwhile, has been presenting as (mostly) a man for who knows how many years and still uses he/him while thinking about himself. I also went that route seeing as these are the most common pronouns used for Crowley within the fandom and, given that the story is through his perspective, readers might prefer it. 
> 
> That's all I've got in the way of notes. Hope you enjoy!

_Hope is the thing with feathers_

_That perches in the soul,_

_And sings the tune without the words_

_And never stops at all…_

\- Emily Dickinson

_June 7 th, 2013: 6 years, 24 days, 4 hours, and 16 minutes until the end of the world. 9:04am. _

Crowley tried his damnedest—ha—not to fidget while he waited outside the Dowling residence. Trust the Lake District to produce the first bit of sun England had seen in weeks, right when he’d updated his wardrobe to include more layers. The jacket was a bit heavy for the slowly warming morning, as were the stockings, his gloves, his hat. _You don’t need to wear all of it_ , Aziraphale had said, trying to slip a sandwich into his purse as he left the bookshop that morning. Just in case Crowley got peckish between the massive breakfast he’d cooked up and the tea the Dowlings would no doubt serve him. _We’re a shoo-in for these jobs, dear. Wear whatever you please._

Crowley was wearing what he pleased, thanks. Gloves, hat, stockings, heels—they all had to stay because they were all a part of the _outfit_ and yes, he could and would still complain about it nonetheless. What if he had suggested that Aziraphale forgo his bow-tie or precious coat in the name of comfort? See how well that went over.

“Good way for a demon to get smited,” Crowley said, tilting his head back to look at the manor. “Hmm. Smited. Smitten? No, no, no, not smitten. Smote? Smm—smo—” His mouth formed the sounds but no more words sprang to mind. “‘Aziraphale would smite me.’ There we go.”

Back a few more steps, Louis Vuitton’s balancing perfectly on gravel. It really was an ugly house, all things considered. If one could term something of this size a house. Very Georgian in its style. Everything clean and neat and lacking anything other than a boring perfection that screamed ‘wealth.’ Crowley missed the bookshop already.

And its occupant. Say what else you would about Aziraphale, he knew how to make a place feel lived in.

“Must be the size,” Crowley said, doing a little twirl so his skirt flared out at the hem. “Takes the bastards forever to get to the—ah!”

Right then the door opened and Crowley was ready, back on the mat with ramrod posture and hands folded neatly over his umbrella, like he hadn’t been indulging in an impromptu dance just seconds before. Serious and sophisticated, that’s what he was going for. At least, that was the theme from the thirteen films he’d binged in the last week. _Mary Poppins_ included.

Crowley swallowed down that desire to fidget, softening his voice instead when a man greeted him with only a cold stare.

“I understand you need a nanny.”

“...Indeed.”

Fantastic. One word and Crowley already hated this guy. Probably because he looked like every film butler while Crowley wasn’t sure he’d pulled off the film nanny. Balding up top. A little pudgy around the waist. Wearing a suit like that in the 21st century and somehow not looking like a total knob. The man gave Crowley a once-over, but it was impossible to tell whether he approved of what he saw.

“Reference?” he said. There was no move to invite him in. “We expect-”

“I know precisely what you expect, Sir. Nanny Ashtoreth at your service. I trust this will suffice?”

Crowley produced the letter from his breast pocket that Aziraphale had helped him prepare the night before. Not in writing it—on one level of reality this paper was entirely blank—but in providing the miracle that would allow this butler to see whatever reference would impress him the most. Crowley could have cursed it himself, but it couldn’t hurt to have a bit of extra, angelic kick to help him out. Especially given the stakes. Holding the paper burned a little though, even through his gloves.

He’d gotten the idea from _Doctor Who_ , of course. Aziraphale hadn’t understood and it had taken a bit of wrangling (not to mention the promise of a new dessert wine for his cellar) to convince him that, yes, an “idiot box” reference would indeed prove useful.

Crowley’s lips wanted to form ‘ _You’re_ an idiot box’ in retroactive teasing, but he swallowed that back too. No reason to put their little plan at risk. _Yes, Crowley. Insult the man. I’m sure that would go over just splendidly._

“The Morrisons?” Mr. Perfect Butler said and for the first time since their little exchange began he lost a bit of his composure, eyes growing wide at whatever glowing praise had materialized on the page. He looked between Crowley and the letter once, twice, a couple of flickers so rapid that he couldn’t keep track, before touching the text like it was... reverent or something. Crowley was making a mental note to ask Aziraphale what in heaven he’d slipped into that miracle when he was finally bowed into the house.

“Please, come in. You must excuse my hesitation. We’ve had a number of applicants these past few weeks and they have all proven to be less than my employers were hoping for. They’ve become quite selective as a result. I’m Lester Quint, the Dowling’s butler. Though few use that term in this day and age. A pity really. Tell me, is Ashtoreth your first or last name?”

“Yes.”

Chatty Cathy, this one. He sounded a bit like Aziraphale at times, all old-fashioned phrasing with a stuck-up air, perfectly suited to the hall Crowley had just walked into. It was clear that the Dowlings hadn’t done a thing to decorate the place themselves. The house probably came furnished, with décor as opulent and boring as the outside. Crowley picked a random crevice and ran his finger along the edge, surprised when it actually came back clean.

Still. Always wanted to do that.

Lester was staring. “Ms. Ashtoreth?”

“I don’t approve of a dirty household. Especially when young children are involved.” There. That sounded appropriately nanny-ish, yeah? And it was true enough. One of these days Crowley was going to pit the king of all dusters against Aziraphale’s bookshelves and there wasn’t a blessed thing the angel could do to stop him.

Seemingly reassured, Crowley was led out into an open entryway, past a spiral staircase leading to the second floor, wide windows showing off the expansive grounds, more doors than he could easily count. Turning into what was recognizably a kitchen was something of a relief. For the first time since stepping inside Crowley felt like people actually lived here. The occasional smudge on the long counter and the smell of baking bread helped. Beneath his blouse, Crowley’s shoulders began to relax.

“Mrs. Glass’ domain,” Lester said, looking around the kitchen with an intensity that would have been funny if he didn’t look legitimately scared. “Frightful woman. Though Mrs. Dowling gave me strict instructions to see to the comforts of any potential employer. Therefore...”

Lester gestured to the island complete with cushioned stools and Crowley took a seat, grateful to be off his feet for a moment. He’d forgotten how bloody _painful_ heels were. But the line of his dress still held up and his legs looked spectacular in those stockings, one now neatly crossed over the other. As Lester set about brewing tea (he’d _known_ he’d get tea) Crowley found his admiring gaze moving from his legs to the kitchen, taking note of the cream cabinets and top-of-the-line stove. There were no knick-knacks though. Very little in the way of personality overall. Other than some old signs of baking, the only thing he could find to distinguish this room from a magazine print was the small stack of cookbooks on the far counter, all of them dog-eared and sporting a cracked spine. Crowley recognized each title.

A fact which Beezlebub _themselves_ couldn’t drag out of him, not with his bibliophobe reputation to maintain. The last thing he needed was for Aziraphale to ever discover his own, small library, hidden deep in his apartment behind a door that only sometimes chose to exist. Crowley wouldn’t live it down—not until another 6,000 years had passed them by, anyway.

All of which was, of course, dependent on the world not ending.

What a sobering thought. It pulled Crowley right out of his nosy inspection, reminding him that he wasn’t here to make new friends or pick up decorating tips. It was with some effort that he drew himself up, re-adopting a more stern, matronly air, and if Lester was at all surprised by that as he set a mug down, it didn’t show. He was busy explaining that Mrs. Glass would be leaving them soon. Isn’t that _such_ a pity? And Crowley took a large gulp of earl gray to avoid ruining the surprise. Whoever Mrs. Glass was, she couldn’t be more of a bastard than the cook Lester was about to end up with.

“Would you like something to eat with that?” Lester’s tone made it clear what he thought the answer should be.

“No, no. This is lovely, thank you.” Ha. So he could have gotten food! Crowley made a mental note to mention as much later. And eat the sandwich still resting at the bottom of his bag. No reason that should go to waste. “Mrs. Dowling is very kind to see to her employees this way.”

Lester grunted. “That she is. Now, when you’ve finished I will escort you to the drawing room where—”

But whatever Crowley would have done in the drawing room (probably not drawing. Though if Mrs. Dowling was interested in art he could manage some passable charcoals) was lost when a rather loud noise sounded in the adjoining room.

Scratch that. Not a noise. A _scream_.

Crowley promptly inhaled a lungful of earl gray up his nose.

“Is someone dying?” he spluttered, only just remembering to keep a bit of that dignified persona threaded into his voice. Really though, it was a challenge when it sounded like someone was being eviscerated just on the other side of the wall. And yes, Crowley was probably the only person in the area who knew what that actually sounded like. It was more of a wail than a scream, high pitched and seemingly endless. When his startled mind picked up on how young the voice was Crowley stood, instinctively making for the door at the kitchen’s end.

Lester’s hand briefly touched his wrist. Crowley drew back. “That would be young Master Warlock.”

...What?

“ _What?_ ”

“Eating breakfast,” Lester added. When that failed to clarify the situation—or fix the assault on Crowley’s ears—he broke decorum for just a moment to run a hand through his hair. “Or _not_ eating, to be exact. I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely honest with you before, Ms. Ashtoreth. Your previous competition did not leave due to a lack of credentials.”

Ah.

Crowley sniffed, setting bag, umbrella, and tea aside. “Then they were a discredit to the profession. I’ve suffered through Beelzebub with a cold, Mr. Quint. I think I can handle one child throwing a tantrum.”

Before Lester could think to stop him Crowley was finishing his path across the kitchen, heels clicking against the linoleum and gloved hands trailing the island. All the while the ferocious cries continued, increasing tenfold when Crowley wrenched open the door. It led to a small alcove attachment, the walls covered in curved windows that showed off the landscaping. Right in the middle was a table and two chairs, a little breakfast nook, occupied by a rather harried looking Mrs. Dowling.

And a squirming bundle of noise.

_The squirt’s grown_ , Crowley thought. Funny, but a part of him had expected to see the same infant from five years ago. Instead, in its place was a pint-sized boy, decked out in trousers and a collared shirt bearing half a bowl’s worth of oatmeal. The rest was scattered across the table. Crowley took just a moment to take in the food that was splattered everywhere but in Warlock’s mouth, Mrs. Dowling’s exhausted expression (quickly turning into infuriated shock) before he was at the boy’s side. Crowley rapped him once on the head.

Not hard. Didn’t need to be hard. The novelty of a strange woman knocking on one’s head was enough to shut Warlock up. There was a beat of bless—ew. No. Wait. Hellish silence in which Crowley could finally hear himself think.

“Do you talk?” he asked, completely ignoring Mrs. Dowling who had half risen from her chair. In his peripheral vision Crowley caught Lester skidding into the room.

Warlock just looked up at him, fat tears still rolling down his cheeks.

“Come now. Is that an answer?” Crowley folded his arms and tapped two fingers impatiently against his elbow. “I can never keep your milestones straight. Are you old enough to talk yet or not?”

“‘Course I can talk!” The words ripped out of Warlock in a fit of indignation, but they were a little slurred, like his mouth was still figuring out what it was meant for. Crowley took note of the puffed up cheeks and the heel that beat a steady rhythm against one of the chair legs. The kid was spoiling for a fight.

Crowley bit back a grin. Excellent.

“Well then! Good to know. If you can talk then you can listen. May I?” Crowley took the chair Mrs. Dowling had just vacated. It finally seemed to break her stupor.

“How dare you!”

“Like this,” Crowley answered, sitting primly on the very edge of his seat. Mrs. Dowling seemed to have no further response to that, so he turned the entirety of his attention back on Warlock.

He certainly _looked_ like Satan’s child. In one manner of speaking, anyway. No red skin or horns, of course. Nor any good old-fashioned hooves. Crowley would bet his last bottle of Domaine Leroy that if he pulled off those patent leather shoes he’d find toesie-wosies just as cute as those he’d possessed when he was first delivered to Earth. No, rather Warlock possessed the sort of looks that dominated horror films and thrillers: pale complexion, pitch-black hair, a gaze so intense it made your skin crawl. Unless you were a demon, that is. Crowley was fine. Although he did wonder if humanity wasn’t in the _know_ somehow. Funny that their collective image of a devil child should be reproduced so accurately now.

Warlock also looked, for lack of a better word, hungry.

“This won’t do at all,” Crowley said, staring rather pointedly at the oatmeal covered table. “It’s breakfast time, young master. I fail to understand why your food seems to be everywhere except for your mouth.”

“Who are you?”

“Your new nanny. Nanny Ashtoreth. And I expect you to answer me when I ask you a question.”

“Didn’t ask a question.” Warlock was back to kicking his heels. “Didn’t hear no question.”

Little bugger. “Fair enough. Perhaps you’re too young to understand an implied interrogative expression—”

“I’m not stupid!”

“You said it, not I. I’ll put it plainly, then: Why are you not eating your oatmeal?” Crowley turned his shoulder so that he blocked Mrs. Dowling from view. Lester seemed to have eyes only for his employer. With as much privacy as he could get in such a small room, Crowley let his sunglasses slip. Just a bit. Just enough so that the unnatural yellow of his eyes could peak through. He watched as Warlock’s face went slack with horror. There. That should drill some sense into the child.

Then a wad of oatmeal hit him square on the cheek.

“You’re ugly,” Warlock pronounced and slid further down into his chair. That, it seemed, was that.

_Raising Lucifer’s offspring_ , Crowley thought. _Yep. Don’t know why I’m surprised..._

The little display finally seemed to knock some sense into Mrs. Dowling though. With a sharp gesture from her Lester was pulling a towel from a side cabinet and Crowley used it to clean himself up, imagining away the bit that had dribbled onto his dress. He might, technically speaking, be Crowley’s lord and master, but he wasn’t going to let Warlock mess with his wardrobe. To quote Aziraphale, he had _standards_.

“I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Dowling said. It sounded like a rehearsed script. “Warlock doesn’t... warm easily to strangers.”

The ‘No shit’ threatened to escape and Crowley just barely managed to bite it back. He plastered on a small smile instead.

“I’m Harriet,” she continued, but offered nothing in the form of a handshake or even a glance his way. Mrs. Dowling was focused entirely on her son, yet for a mother concerned with his behavior she didn’t seem terribly inclined to do anything about it. Crowley watched, the seconds dragging on, waiting to see if there would be a reprimand, some sort of punishment, or better yet, a conversation that actually addressed whatever was bothering the kid. He was clearly old enough to have it. Yet all Mrs. Dowling did was wring her hands, now sparing Crowley the occasional glance. The question embedded in those looks was clear.

Why aren’t you leaving?

Honestly, if the other applicants left because they got a little food on their clothing, they weren’t particularly kid friendly. Then again... Aziraphale had laid a blanket miracle across his position. Crowley didn’t need the help, obviously, but it made the angel happy. Hell only knew what mischief the universe might have struck up in the days before he’d arrived. For all he knew, the former applicants had been suddenly struck with the delicate constitutions of a Jane Austen character. One mildly inconvenient thing and they’re inexplicably laid out with a fever.

Whoops.

Oh well. Not his problem. Crowley slapped the table, making all three of these ridiculous humans startle.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

“I understand that you’re expressing your displeasure in this manner because you don’t want to eat this?” Crowley inclined his head towards the mess of oatmeal. Chances were this had little, if anything, to do with breakfast food, but they’d have to tackle that later. “Perhaps you’d like something else?”

For the first time Mrs. Dowling experienced what one might term fire in the back of her eyes. “He’s supposed to eat what’s set in front of him. That’s the rule.”

_Rules are meaningless without compromise_ , Crowley thought, but didn’t say. He leaned forward, keeping his expression as open as he could manage. “If you could have anything to eat, dear—anything at all—what would it be?

And Warlock, with the snippy air only a toddler could manage, said:

“Cake.”

...alright then.

Mrs. Dowling was already rolling her eyes. “You can’t eat cake for breakf—excuse me!”

Crowley pushed past her, past Lester too, pausing only to carefully step around the food disaster that now blocked his way. Shoes saved, he marched back into the kitchen, fully aware that he was moving as if he had any idea where he was going. Which was fifty percent the point and fifty percent just straight up didn’t matter. Because Crowley didn’t need to know where anything was to get what he needed... but it never hurt to show a bit of confidence.

Okay. More than a bit.

He could feel the two stares on the back of his neck. Three, if you counted the tiny pair of eyes peering between Mom and Butler. Funny, but Crowley would have thought that the antichrist would be... different. Somehow. More hair-raising, skin-crawling, slivers of ice piercing through one’s soul. That sort of thing. Instead his gaze was just another, normal weight as Crowley stopped before a number of high cabinets.

Like the handy paper Aziraphale had helped him draw up—a bit like their wings too—these cabinets now existed in two planes of reality, simultaneously. On one level, the logical level, they contained stacks of dishware that Mrs. Glass only ever brought out when Mrs. Dowling was hosting some of her husband’s many influential friends. If Crowley were to open them, he should find nothing but crystal and fancy blue detailing on plates. However, thanks to a subtle snap hidden in the folds of his dress, the cabinet right about his head now had a devilishly new addition.

Crowley opened the door to cake and Mrs. Dowling gasped.

“When did Paula bake _that_?”

Three tiers, a different flavor each, intricate piping because Crowley had watched too many baking shows lately and he felt like showing off. Aziraphale would have thrown an absolute fit (“Miracled food is not a substitute for the real thing!”), but he was in a bit of a pinch here. Besides, it wasn’t like a kid was going to pass up sugar. No matter where it might have sprung from. Crowley had modeled the icing after the hydrangeas in the garden outside the breakfast nook and the effect of the flowers was, if he could indulge in a bit of arrogance, something like utter perfection.

He drew the cake out with all the solemnity of a servant carrying jewels. Actually, Crowley held that cake with more reverence than he’d given the basket carrying the kid a few feet away. Funny, the sort of priorities one developed.

“How did you know that was in there?” Lester said, eyes narrowing and, to be frank, looking far more intelligent than Crowley would have preferred.

He adopted a comical look of surprise. “Why, couldn’t you smell it? I knew your dear Mrs. Glass had something freshly baked the moment I walked into the room. I hardly know why she chose to put it in the cupboard, though. Such a beautiful piece should be out on display. You don’t have anything special planned, do you, Mrs. Dowling?” Crowley hardly gave her time to answer. “I hope your cook doesn’t mind me borrowing this lovely morsel. Only, I think you’ll much prefer how I intend to use it...”

The last was delivered in a conspiratorial whisper, just for her. If Mrs. Dowling had any inkling of what was afoot, she didn’t show it. Just smoothed brown hair back into its bun and drew herself up with practiced severity. Actually, if she had known what _was_ up, Crowley would have been rather freaked—considering _he_ only had a faint idea and all that.

Really, he hadn’t fully decided what he wanted to do until he’d set the cake in front of Warlock and saw the bright anticipation in his eyes. The smell of icing and rich chocolate overpowered the oatmeal. Now stone-cold bits flew off to the side as the plate was plopped on top of them.

Heh. The cake was nearly as big as he was.

“Have you ever seen _Matilda_?” Crowley asked, voice as sweet as honey.

Warlock shook his head.

“Excellent. Have at it then, dear.”

For all his ulterior motives, the moment was a rather pleasing one. Crowley had always liked kids—even the literal hellspawn of his boss—so watching Warlock’s face split into the first real smile of the day was something to behold. Not to be too cliché about it, but it really did transform him. He looked like an actual child instead of a rundown fifty-year-old packed into a four-foot frame. In Crowley’s opinion smiles were good, even if they were a result of the worst things.

Just as quickly though it disappeared. Warlock’s eyes shuttered, suspicion creeping in and taking hold. He looked towards his mom before jumping straight back to Crowley.

“...What?”

“You heard me. Dig in,” and with a quick gesture behind his back Crowley silenced Mrs. Dowling. He wasn’t sure if she’d taken the hint or if he’d accidentally, literally silenced her. Didn’t particularly. “You said you wanted cake, right? Well,” he brought gloved hands back out, encompassing the mound of sweetness. “We just happen to have a cake right here! Don’t see why an important boy such as yourself shouldn’t get everything he wants—and then some. Cake for breakfast is an easy request. I’m your nanny, Warlock. It’s my job to give you whatever you please.”

That, it seemed, was all the encouragement a child needed. Warlock snatched up his spoon and began attacking the cake with a single-minded determination, the sort of obsession only a child could conjure up. Or Aziraphale when he’d found a new first edition. Which amounted to much the same thing. Crowley felt a brief pang as his hydrangeas were demolished and replaced with cakey sludge, but such were the sacrifices he’d set himself up to make.

Not really the morning he’d envisioned either. Crowley had hoped for that posh tea—now growing cold back in the kitchen—and an interview where he could spin all the amazing talents he didn’t actually have, but was willing enough to fake. Yet here they were: a demon, a butler, and a harried mother, watching the antichrist inhale a three-tiered cake. After the first minute or so Crowley pulled up a chair. Mrs. Dowling did the same. Lester allowed himself a subtle lean against the doorjamb.

The meal was a long one, but you didn’t live through six-thousand years and not develop something resembling patience. Crowley allowed himself a twiddling of thumbs within the folds of his dress and slight tapping of the toe that was lost amidst the sound of eating. The rest of him was stock-still until, maybe fifteen minutes later, Warlock made _that_ expression.

Just a slight twinge across his mouth, but it was the sign Crowley had been waiting for.

“Feeling alright, then?”

Warlock nodded, but there was a hesitancy behind it now. Crowley leaned forward and, had anyone been able to see his eyes, they might have commented not merely on their snakey properties, but precisely how snakey they had just become. Only a thin slit of pupil remained and Crowley quickly, silently, flicked his tongue out to taste the air. He always had enjoyed tempting others with food.

“Really?” he said. “Because it looks as if you might be feeling a little ill...”

Warlock shot him a glare that, under any other circumstances, Crowley would have been praising him for. They’d known one another less than half an hour and already he could tell that the kid had a stubborn streak a mile long, with frequent roadblocks of the pride variety. So he wasn’t at all surprised when Warlock violently scooped up another spoonful of cake and shoved it into his mouth. Then another. And another.

Ah. So the other humans weren’t quite as dense as expected. Mrs. Dowling had begun to slowly circle her son in a distinctly predatory fashion, expression as far from motherly as one could get. It was calculating, pure and simple, and the look she shared with Crowley over the table held too much understanding for their own, sparse acquaintance.

Lester, meanwhile, had gone to fetch a bucket.

Remarkably, it was only another ten minutes or so until Warlock’s face lost what little color it had and Lester neatly slid that bucket forward with a single push.

“Good timing,” Crowley complimented as vomiting filled the breakfast nook.

Most kids would have managed a lot more before losing their cookies. Or cake rather, but he supposed this was what came of refusing to eat for who knew how long and then overloading a small stomach with sugar. Crowley took note of Mrs. Dowling’s pained expression, but otherwise ignored her in favor of scooting closer to Warlock. He neatly removed his glove and slid his fingers into the kid’s hair, now slightly damp with sweat.

“This is why you need to watch _Matilda_ , dear,” he said, smoothing back the strands. Warlock went stiff for a moment, then leaned into the touch. Though he’d finished, his head still hung over the pail. “And also why you listen to your Mother. She knows the sort of things that are good to eat this early in the morning.” It sounded like they were out in the wilds, relying on specialized knowledge to see them through to tomorrow. Given what he was up against, the comparison wasn’t entirely ridiculous. Crowley felt a smile tugging at his lips. “You’re a tiny thing right now, with tiny experiences, and though they’ll come a day when you can force everyone to bow to your food whims, that day is not today. Finished?”

Overt acknowledgment of the mess he’d made seemed to shock Warlock out of the stupor he’d fallen into. He jerked back, nearly upending his chair, mouth twisting with more than just bad breath. The legs of the chair came back down with a clatter and Warlock was already on his feet, using the momentum to propel himself through the door. Crowley could have snagged him. Chose not to. They all heard the pounding of little feet as they ascended the stairs.

Crowley nodded, replacing his glove. “Kids his age aren’t known for their good memories, but with any luck this lesson will stick. We’ll check on him at lunch. See if he’s up for something mild. Not oatmeal though. If he truly doesn’t like the stuff—and I get that sense here—then it’s best to provide him with other options. In fact,” Crowley snapped his fingers. “I have a lovely sandwich in my purse. That will do nicely.”

Silence reigned. Mrs. Dowling now leaned hard on one of the other chairs, looking very much like the proverbial deer caught in headlights. Also like a fish, given how her mouth had started bobbing.

“So,” she finally managed. “Just to recap: you barge your way in here when I did not give you free reign of this household, insulted and otherwise ignored me, stole a cake out of our pantry, foisted that off on my son, and let him eat until he was literally sick. Does that just about cover things?”

_You could have stopped me._ Crowley tamped down on the voice because no, not really the point here. What came out was, “Er... well. When you put it that way—”

“You’re hired.”

Ah.

...righty then. Fantastic. Tickety-boo, as some fools might say.

“My boy, he’s...” Mrs. Dowling hesitated, weighing what seemed to be a whole host of words before settling on, “Different. He’s different, Ms. ...?”

“Ashtoreth,” he reminded her. Just as quiet. “Nanny Ashtoreth is fine.”

Mrs. Dowling smiled. A small, genuine thing that, like on her son, heralded a rather remarkable transformation. “I haven’t called anyone ‘Nanny’ in over twenty years. But sure. Nanny Ashtoreth, I realize every mom in the world thinks her little darling is unique, but mine _is_. I need someone equally unique to keep up with him.”

How right she was. In more ways than one.

“No ‘equally,’ My Lady.”

Crowley turned in his chair to find Lester looking as if he’d suddenly swallowed a lemon, going a little cross-eyed in an attempt to glare down at his own mouth. It was a ridiculous look on the otherwise stoic man and Crowley gave himself a pat on the back from holding his laugh in.

Mrs. Dowling might have been amused. Or not. It was honestly kind of hard to tell with her. “Excuse me?”

“It’s just...” Lester’s hands spasmed for a moment before settling behind his back. “If something is unique then it’s one of a kind. You can’t quantify it with ‘very’ or, ‘equally’ or... Actually, I think I’ll just remove this, shall I? Yes. Quite unsightly.”

While Lester scooped crumbs and bits of dried oatmeal into the foul-smelling pail, Crowley and Mrs. Dowling shared a look over his bent back. There weren’t any secret messages passed between them. It wasn’t like they suddenly understood one another thanks to an interaction lasting just a moment, but there was a general sense of purpose between them now. Crowley had done more with far less.

“It’s settled then,” he said, standing. “We can work the details out later. Perhaps over that lunch? For now, I’d be ever so grateful if you’d show me to my room.”

They left Lester to his cleaning and passed back through the kitchen, Crowley retrieving his bag and umbrella as they went. Mrs. Dowling took a right instead of a left and he resigned himself to getting lost in this maze more than once. As they passed more doors, more windows, more staircases seeming to lead back to themselves, it became inevitable.

They walked up to the third floor, just beyond a firmly closed door with a piece gouged out of the wood. Warlock’s, no doubt. Mrs. Dowling all but confirmed it when she opened the next bedroom, revealing a spacious ensemble done up in soft cremes and lace. Crowley hated it.

“How lovely!”

Not all lies were sins. Crowley watched Mrs. Dowling’s shoulders relax slightly and wondered if Hell would ever get that memo.

There was, admittedly, a stupid amount to discuss. More logistics than Crowley was particularly interested in wading through, but then he hadn’t wanted to get handed a baby in a basket either. They’d deal with it later. After Crowley had some time to let it all sink in and Mrs. Dowling had the chance to notice the bit of oatmeal clinging to her elbow. Time for Lester to clean the breakfast nook and for the boy next door to do... whatever it was an antichrist did to cool off.

“Eviscerating animals and botched summonings, probably,” he muttered, right in time with the door clicking shut behind him. Probably not though. Hopefully not. If the kid was already at the blood sacrifice stage, there wasn’t much a nobody angel and an impostor demon could do for him. Luckily, Crowley hadn’t sensed anything beyond that normal temper tantrum. And normal was what they were looking for, right? With enough attempts toward extreme evil and extreme divinity to trick their respective bosses. Give the kid exactly what he wanted, but with an educational result. Surely Hell couldn’t fault Crowley for giving the antichrist cake.

And if the kid happened to learn a few valuable lessons about listening and moderation and not being so stubborn you literally made yourself sick? (Crowley had done it once too, just with pizza and Aziraphale’s skepticism. The end result wasn’t worth the bragging rights). That was all the better.

“Great,” Crowley said, chucking his bag into the corner. “One down, only about a million more of those little lessons to go.”

He’d been left to “freshen up”—funny that he only ever heard that phrase when he was a woman—and otherwise get his bearings. Of the physical and mental variety. Staring around at a little chair and small table, the door leading to a bedroom and another a luxurious bath... it suddenly struck Crowley that this was his home. For the next six years.

Sweet _Someone_ , what had they gotten themselves into?

With a sigh he approached the window directly across from him, begrudgingly admitted that the view at least was stunning. Whoever was in charge of the grounds had done a fantastic job, and that was saying something from a demon who frequently relied on intimidation tactics to achieve the same results. It never ceased to amaze him exactly what humans were capable of, given enough time and elbow grease.

The chair by the window had one of those embroidered pillows on it: REMEMBER THAT YOU ARE LOVED, with decorative flowers around the words that couldn’t hold a candle to the stuff outside. The wording made Crowley pause though.

Mmm. Right.

With a snap of his fingers, he sent a crafted memory out into the world, a subtle, slippery thing with instructions to find this Mrs. Glass. She wouldn’t exactly remember baking that cake, but she wouldn’t not remember it either. Like a dream that was maybe a dream, maybe a memory, maybe just something you thought of on the spot with a touch of deja vu. The important thing was that if anyone asked, she wouldn’t go getting the new nanny into trouble.

New nanny. Nanny Ashtoreth. Nanny Crowley, if honesty was at play. He quite like the sound of all of those. The persona, at least, was something to look forward to.

Crowley threw himself into the chair and considered the morning’s victory. All that was left was to make it a habit… and bring in reinforcements. Twenty-four hours until Aziraphale arrived, but Crowley felt like he needed him in the house now. What was the old adage? It takes a village?

Raising the antichrist to avoid Armageddon. How hard could it really be? Crowley looked to the clock on his mantle. Two hours down, only forty-some thousand left to go.

A piece of cake.


	2. Chapter 2

_August 27th 2008: 11 years, 277 days, 15 hours, and 5 minutes until the end of the world. 10:15pm_

Aziraphale was on one of his rampages.

Crowley called them rampages (only in the privacy of his own mind, of course) because although it was all done with a puttering sort of sophistication, inevitably these moods led to all sorts of destruction: desks were upended to reveal their innards of paper, pens, old-fashioned inkwells, the occasional cookie long forgotten and yet literally, miraculously still fresh. Books were tossed here and there in an effort to find other books, though which ones he was never told. Furniture was pushed aside to find that one particular pencil, or tea was started because you couldn’t get a thing done without tea. Crowley let it go on ten minutes—indulgent of him—before snagging Aziraphale’s ankle with his foot. He glared down at the interruption, cheeks puffed like an angry chipmunk.

“Unhand me,” he said.

Crowley twiddled the fingers of both hands. “No hands on you.”

“Unfoot me, demon.”

“Then sit down already. Seriously, I’m getting anxious just watching you.”

That caught Aziraphale’s attention, all too aware that Crowley didn’t lie about such things, even when both of them claimed he would. With a huff Aziraphale sat back down in his chair.

...Only to hop up again a second later.

“Can I at least finish the tea?”

Crowley sighed. It was pure theatrics though. “If you want. But we don’t need the rest of this stuff to make plans, angel.”

“Just trying to be prepared,” he said. Huffed really, chin an inch in the air as he puttered off to the kitchen.

“You’re procrastinating. And bring me some of those ginger snaps!”

Crowley pulled his knees a little tighter against his chest, precariously balanced on the armrest of the sofa. It occurred to him, mostly through the ache that jolted through his legs at the movement, that he’d been curled like this for some time. Ever since they’d decided to actually... you know. Stop Armageddon. And all that. Ha. Felt absurd, admitting it. Even just in the privacy of his own thoughts. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t bothered to move yet. Moving meant action, plans and things they couldn’t come back from. Despite being the original energy behind this suicidal venture (was it suicidal if the world was coming to an end anyway?) Crowley didn’t feel particularly inclined now to get the ball rolling. Unlike Aziraphale.

The unmistakable sound of a whole tea tray coming into existence could be heard. With a groan Crowley let himself fall onto the couch, still with his arms wrapped around his knees. This was how Aziraphale found him a few minutes later.

“Really. Can’t you sit like a normal person?”

“I’m not a person.”

“I will not play these word games all night.” But of course, all Crowley needed to do was stick his lip out a little and Aziraphale rolled his eyes, indulgent. “Can’t you sit like a normal demon?”

“This is how demons sit. Come to one of the meetings sometime. You’ll see.”

Aziraphale poured himself a cup of what smelled like cardamon and loaded up a small plate with biscuits for Crowley. “Yes, that would go over splendidly. An angel down in the depths of hell. Whatever shall we think of next?”

In truth, once he’d voiced the image Crowley wanted to call the blessed thing back. Thinking about Aziraphale anywhere near that place made his skin crawl. Literally, scales threatening to erupt as he took on his true form in preparation for a fight. He shook off the feeling, finally sitting up and accepting the plate with a murmured thanks. Crowley immediately snapped one of the cookies in half and handed it back to Aziraphale. It was promptly dunked in his tea.

“So we’ve decided to raise the antichrist,” he said. “Now what?”

“This is precisely why I wanted my notebook. And a good fountain pen.” Aziraphale stayed put though, only casting a wistful glance at his disaster of a desk. “Let’s start with the goal and work backwards. We wish to—er.” He stumbled a moment, eyes briefly flickering towards the ceiling. “That is, you want to influence the antichrist whereas I wish to thwart you. What, then, are your nefarious plans?”

Crowley’s lip twitched. “Nefarious plans?”

Aziraphale merely glared.

“Okay, okay. Give me a sec.”

He set the plate in his lap and tipped his head against the back of the sofa, eyes closed. Crowley was, all things considered, a rather excellent demon. Time among humans had taught him precisely what set them off, all those little rippling annoyances that could grow into something far bigger. More _malleable_. At the end of the day he was more than happy to cut the phone lines for a couple of hours because, objectively speaking, anything that happened afterwards humanity had done to themselves. Crowley didn’t force bosses to scream at their employees, or husbands to take their frustration out on their wives, or women to prioritize shaking their cell over watching the road.* He set the stage and let them act wherever their nature took them; a designer setting the stage, not a director. After all, he’d learned from the best.

(*It is perhaps worth noting here that Crowley excelled in setting an unrealistically _safe_ stage. He was all too aware that, particularly in this day and age, cell phones were a necessary resource. Miraculously—if one insisted on putting it that way—when lines went down all calls to 999 still managed to get through. As did other emergency services. The man would inexplicably decide to drink rather than raise his hand; the woman would hit the pole rather than the pedestrian. Crowley was of the mind that humanity could do with a bit of chaos now and then. Not torture. _That_ , after all, wasn’t his assigned department.)

So yeah. Seeding discord. He could do it. The problem was the mindset. He wasn’t the demon that truly wanted to sink the Antichrist even further into sin before his big day arrived... but he’d have to _pretend_ he was. At least for a few minutes, here and now. So Crowley pushed down all those pesky, real emotions and thought clinically for a moment.

“Five,” he eventually said, opening his eyes. The bookshop was dark behind his glasses and when Crowley lifted his neck he found it a little stiff---he’d been thinking a while then. Aziraphale was patient though, still seated across from him, moving only to take small sips of tea. “Or when he’s around that old, anyway. He can walk, talk, start making some real decisions... that’s when he’ll be at his most malleable. Besides, I’m not sure I’m up for taking care of an infant.” Crowley’s frame wracked with an exaggerated shudder.

Aziraphale’s eyebrow crept into his hair. “Taking care of?”

“Well yeah. I’ll be his nanny. Obviously.”

“Obviously?”

“How else did you want to do this? Become the local librarians, see him once a month, only speak about the books he hates but is being forced to read?”

Aziraphale briefly opened his mouth and though nothing came out, it was clear in an instant that this was precisely the sort of relationship he’d imagined: something remote and even leisurely. Essentially their lives now, exactly as they were, with the exception of one small, inconsequential change. His befuddlement turned to annoyance as Crowley’s smile softened.

“What do you think being a godfather means?”

“Oh hush,” he said. “Yes, yes, I get what you’re saying. Very well. I suppose we will have to be more than benevolent relations that bestow wisdom at key moments.”

“Okay. What exactly have you been reading?”

“But who’s to say _I_ don’t want to be the nanny?” Aziraphale leaned forward and snatched another biscuit off Crowley’s plate, biting it in revolt. “Hmm? I could be quite good at something like that. Why, I was always particularly fond of the children, back when Heaven had me doing more hands-on work.”

Aziraphale liked children alright... just from a distance. Like so many other messy, chaotic things that tended to blow through life. He enjoyed seeing children grow, giving them sweets, tiny bits of knowledge that they could hoard and use to their advantage—in short, acting as that benevolent figure that children viewed only as a positive influence, mainly because he was never around long enough for them to think otherwise. Aziraphale wanted to be the cool uncle who slammed in for a weekend, bearing presents that earned him megawatt smiles. He didn’t want to be the parent who had to re-establish bedtime and clean up the mess.

Crowley had once watched a toddler chew on the end of Aziraphale’s lapel and if his expression hadn’t been enough to tell him he wasn’t up for a nannying gig, the last 6,000 years of similar experiences would have. Fun times telling him that though.

So instead, Crowley went with the complementary route: “Well you can be, sure, if you want. I just thought you’d prefer to be their cook instead.”

Bingo. On any other night Aziraphale might have noticed that Crowley’s tone was a little too bland, too indifferent, but between the fuzziness that came with sobering themselves up and the delicate topic of conversation he bypassed suspicion completely, settling on joy. Besides, it wasn’t like he was lying or anything. As established, such things weren’t done between them. Not on Crowley’s end, anyway. He had assumed that Aziraphale would prefer to stay in the kitchen and he would have given up the nanny claim if that assumption had proven false. No matter what sort of problems it might cause in the future. What Aziraphale wanted, Aziraphale inevitable got.

...with more than a bit of help from Crowley in the process. It wasn’t really something he was inclined to think on too closely. He stuffed biscuits into his mouth instead.

“Yes,” Aziraphale was saying, oblivious to stained cheeks and hurried chewing. “That’s a marvelous idea! Why, you know I’m well suited to the task. Certainly I prefer to be served the food—anyone who claims cake doesn’t taste as good unless you make it yourself has clearly never eaten a decent slice—but I’m more than capable of putting aside such a preference. There are a number of recipes that I’d enjoy giving a whirl again.”

Crowley swallowed and tapped his foot. “You realize it has to be edible, right? No 14th century dishes—”

“As if I would serve anything from the 14th century. Who exactly do you take me for?”

“And it’s gonna be a range. Probably. I mean, rich adults want rich foods, right? But kids are into... I don’t know. Macaroni and cheese. Pizza. Garlic bread. Cake, obviously.”

The glare Aziraphale leveled at him would have stripped paint from the walls. “I will not be feeding this child macaroni and cheese.”

“But cake?”

“...yes. I suppose any child deserves cake once and a while. Even the Antichrist.”

This time, saying the name aloud seemed to hit them both, right at the same moment. Something of the magnitude and absurdity of the situation wormed its way past the otherwise cheerful atmosphere. Aziraphale fell silent, paying an unnecessary amount of attention to the rest of his tea. Crowley trailed his finger along the cup’s rim, letting the drink go cold. He nevertheless swallowed the rest in one gulp, grimacing.

“Doubt a family like that is gonna advertise for jobs,” he said. “I’ll just, you know.” He wiggled his fingers, their long-established gesture for the wishy-washy efforts that went into bending reality. It wouldn’t be hard. They had some time ahead of them. They had their perspective roles. All it would take now was making sure that any former cook or nanny inexplicably found themselves with an urge to change employment. It was settled.

Which was why Crowley grew mighty confused when Aziraphale’s eyes suddenly narrowed and he slammed the teacup down on the table, leaning forward. “Now hold on just a moment.”

“Eh?”

“I see what you’re up to, _demon_ ,” and Crowley could have laughed at the drama of the word. Would have if he’d thought he could get away with it. Plus, there were more pressing issues.

“Will you tell me?” he drawled. “Because I’m afraid I’ve completely forgotten what it is I’m supposed to be plotting.”

Aziraphale sniffed. “Please. It’s obvious now that I’ve given it some thought. Me the cook and you the nanny? It’s a preposterous division of labor. I wonder who will be spending the most time with the boy then, hmm? Who will be given the most chance to influence him? Surely not the chef who must remain in the kitchen. Honestly, thinking you could slip that past me? No, no, no, we must come up with something else.”

Meanwhile, Crowley had gone rather still on the couch. Not from the slights against him—that was all just in a day’s conversation for them—but from the absolute shock that Aziraphale was right.

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Best not to mention that either.

“I didn’t,” he started, but what came out next was a sort of ‘ngk’ sound that didn’t help matters. Crowley cleared his throat. “I didn’t think of that.”

Soft and sincere. Enough of both anyway that Aziraphale paused, dropping the offended act. “I’m sorry?”

Crowley shrugged. “Honestly didn’t think of that. Yeah. I’m probably gonna get more time with the kid. But I won’t, uh...” He couldn’t say that he wouldn’t turn him. It wasn’t the truth. Even if it was, you couldn’t just go around blurting such things. So Crowley twisted his mouth instead, trying to convey a future where he did his job, but not so well that they all ended up in a smoldering pile of nothing at the end of the world. What he eventually settled on was, “I’m the one who came up with this mad plan in the first place.”

Aziraphale considered that. The smile that bloomed as a result sent Crowley skittering back into his teacup. “You did, my dear. Quite silly of me to forget.”

“We’ll, like... hang out in the kitchen a lot.”

“As one does.”

“Eee-yep. Kids need snacks. Hydration. Probably gotta snag milk at least three times a day.”

“Four, I’d say. At the least.”

“Five then.”

“Five sounds perfect.”

It dissolved into laughter, the kind that wasn’t a result of anything funny per-se, just pure relief and joy and something else that Crowley wasn’t inclined to try and name right now. Aziraphale slid further down into his seat, casually re-filling and re-warming both their cups. He took a long sip before leveling Crowley with a thoroughly fond look.

“It’s settled then?” he asked. “2013. I shall be the cook, you shall be the nanny, and together we’ll do...” Aziraphale shrugged, managing to look tipsy despite the fact that they were no longer imbibing. “Whatever it is we’re able to do.”

It wasn’t enough. Crowley knew that ‘maybe’s and ‘possibly’s weren’t going to cut it. Not with all that was at stake. But he also knew that had no way of assuring any of it. So yeah. It would have to do. For now at least.

“2013,” he agreed and like at the start of it all he leaned across the divide, offering Aziraphale a handshake. He took it gladly and as their fingers met Crowley focused slightly and began to grow out his hair. Within moments the short locks had transformed into waves that fell down his shoulders, perfectly curled and shining under the bookshop’s light.

“Show off,” Aziraphale muttered, and tossed a biscuit at his head.


	3. Chapter 3

_June 8 th, 2013: 6 years, 23 days, 16 hours, and 2 minutes until the end of the world. 2:18am. _

Crowley dearly wished that he could sleep.

Really, it was a tragedy he couldn’t. He had a big, fluffy feather bed that was nearly as soft as the down that came from his wings. Sheets with thread counts in the thousands, the perfect warmth and weight to combat the night’s chill. What the Dowling residence lacked in personal style it made up for in pure luxury. Crowley had spent the hours after dinner pacing between the door and the window of his room. Not because he was anxious (well, not entirely because he was anxious), but simply to feel the lush carpet through his stockings. Falling into bed and allowing his corporeal form to drift for eight hours would have been a welcome prize after the day he’d suffered through.

No rest for the wicked though. Quite literally in their case. Nearly 2:30am and young Warlock Dowling was trying to sneak a snake into the new nanny’s bedroom.

The irony wasn’t lost on Crowley.

“Points for style,” he whispered to the ceiling.

He’d been at it since this afternoon and if Crowley hadn’t already known that this child was destined for the mischievous and destructive, he might have been impressed with the ingenuity. As it was, Crowley was _still_ impressed because, inhuman or not, he hadn’t met many five-year-olds over the centuries who could pull off that kind of work ethic. Almost an hour after he’d flown upstairs, Warlock had returned in a clean shirt and trousers, hair slightly damp from what Crowley assumed was a quick shower. Another surprise then. Unless there were servants upstairs—and Crowley got the distinct impression that Warlock wouldn’t have let another adult near him for those intervening forty-five minutes—then he was able to wash and dress himself just fine. Wanted to, even. Crowley had watched Warlock lift his nose into the air, how Mrs. Dowling furiously twisted the fabric of her dress, and filled in a number of blanks.

Warlock had then pulled little wellies over his socked feet and marched right out to the garden. No one followed him. No one even seemed concerned that a young child was wandering through the (admittedly well-manicured) brush with no supervision for one hour, then two, then an undetermined amount of time as Crowley became lost in the horrifying logistics of securing this job. He frequently looked out the window though, only sometimes catching sight of a shock of black hair. By the time lunch rolled around he’d been ready to set something out there on fire, just so that someone else would pay attention.

Not really, of course. Those poor flowers didn’t deserve to die just because this mother didn’t seem concerned that her kid had been out of sight for most of the afternoon. On a property big enough to feel like a small country.

_She’d do it again_ , Crowley thought, listening as Mrs. Dowling fostered off every bit of care to him in cold, itemized lists. _She’d pull that little trick on him a hundred times if it got her out of a single, difficult breakfast. Not hoping he’ll learn something from it. Just hoping he’ll go back upstairs and leave her alone. I’m surprised the cook isn’t in charge of feeding the kid._

Though as Crowley found out just ten minutes later, she normally was. Mrs. Glass had made the long drive into the city to finish securing her new apartment and wouldn’t be back until the next morning at the earliest. Lester, normally the next go-to for feeding, had been distracted by Crowley’s unexpected arrival.

“You can see then why we so desperately need a nanny,” Mrs. Dowling had said, somber. All Crowley had been able to do was nod.

Warlock had returned just after Crowley finished scrawling his signature— _a_ signature—on the form Mrs. Dowling insisted on including. She’d never be able to read it. If she tried she’d find herself suddenly distracted by something Very Important, and if there was any resistance? Cue the headache that would send her to bed for the rest of the day. Crowley didn’t think it would come to that though. Mrs. Dowling had seemed pleased to just have it: proof that someone else had committed to doing the job she so clearly didn’t want.

It felt like a victory. Maybe. Sort of. If you rubbed your eyes and squinted.

A wet ‘thwap!’ sound had startled them both. Crowley tipped his chair back and Mrs. Dowling stood from behind the desk they’d made use of, both of them leaning to get a look out of the office door. It was still light out, but with the sort of quality where you knew a storm wasn’t too far off. There was just something about the strengthening clouds and how the beams of sunlight shining through the windows could barely reach across the carpet. Warlock had kicked the door shut behind him just as the first droplets splattered down.

“What have you got there, dear?” Mrs. Dowling had asked, nodding at his very full, very heavy bucket. It was clear to even the daftest dolt that the question emerged out of frustration, not interest.

Crowley, meanwhile, could hear what was inside. No one else would have been able to pick up on the subtle hissing; the sound of scales sliding over a handmade bed of leaves. He raised a gloved hand and delicately coughed into his palm, unable to keep from smiling.

“Nothing, Mother.” Warlock intoned. He’d shot a glare at them both, something that might have been fearsome if he wasn’t forced to waddle with the bucket in both hands. Not a tiny garter snake then. Something with heft. For one glorious moment Crowley imagined the kid tripping over those boots, the snake and all its accessories spilling out onto Mrs. Dowling’s sterile floor. It was a gorgeous picture and Crowley suddenly wanted it so badly he feared he’d bring it into existence.

So he dove into the bag at his feet, pulling out Aziraphale’s sandwich. It was, as sandwiches went, rather appealing. Classic Cuban Midnight: indulgently thick slices of ham and pork topped with Swiss cheese and dill pickle slices, all of it squished between a sweet roll and pressed with Aziraphale’s ever perfect panini maker. It was, impossibly, still warm. Crowley could smell the melty goodness beneath the white paper. There was even a little smiley face done in sharpie on the side and really, who could resist that? Not the kid who’d just been hunting through brush for hours on end.

“You must be hungry,” Crowley said. He kindly ignored Warlock’s instinctive flinch. “Perhaps you’d like half of this? Or all of it, if you please. Growing boys need to eat after all. You can’t survive on sweets alone.”

Food, obviously, was still a touchy subject. Mrs. Dowling eyed this sudden development with interest while Warlock remained planted in front of his bucket, most likely to keep anyone from peering inside. He kept sneaking glances at it, clearly terrified his new pet would slither out the longer he hung around.

“I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? I can guarantee it’s delicious. My angel made it for me just this morning.”

...shit.

Now how the fuck did that happen? Who the fuck let that happen? Oh yeah. Crowley. Him with his idiotic brain and his mischievous mouth and the fact that he’d never bothered to establish a link between the two of them. The second he realized what his subconscious had decided to call Aziraphale, several things happened at once: Mrs. Dowling suddenly let out a stupidly dramatic gasp that was followed by, “Why, I didn’t know you were married, Nanny Ashtoreth!” Lester came through from some random door and immediately narrowed eyes at the bucket in the middle of his otherwise pristine hall, clearly uncomfortable with its presence. Especially so soon after another, soiled example had been whisked away. A maid who Crowley did not know (and who, notably, he’d never see again) arrived, took one look at the growing ensemble, and performed the universal ‘Oh dear. I’ve forgotten something’ gesture before hoofing it back upstairs. Crowley couldn’t blame her, especially not when Warlock used the brief stint of chaos to sprint across the threshold—surprisingly agile for a booted squirt—snatch the sandwich right out of Crowley’s hand, and slam dunk it into the bin. Hard enough that various gooey bits escaped from their wrapper too. What a waste of a lunch.

Aziraphale must never find out.

Mrs. Dowling hardly seemed to notice. She was too busy nattering on about how darling the pet name ‘angel’ was. _How long have you been married?_ (Who went and jumped from one nickname to marriage? That’s what Crowley wanted to know.) _Why really, Nanny, you must bring him here to live with you. We have plenty of room, after all._

Crowley had muttered something about him living in America, which just made it all a thousand times worse as both parties recalled that she was American born and _oh, you must provide me with an address so that I can send him my regards. I still have extended family out there, you know..._ Lester chimed in that he had an ex-boyfriend in America, but Mrs. Dowling hardly spared him a glance. She sidled up to Crowley and placed a hand on his arm, saying something about writing letters together.

Meanwhile, Warlock—clearly smarter than the rest of his family combined—used all the nonsense to slip away, dragging the bucket upstairs with careful, but nonetheless quick steps. At one point the plastic knocked against the wall and out briefly popped a flat, black head. Warlock then rounded the corner with his prize before anyone else could notice.

It felt a little like abandonment, absurd as that was. Crowley spent the next few hours fielding off Mrs. Dowling’s increasingly exuberant attempts at friendship and regretting his choice of heels. Though he’d never admit as much. Warlock didn’t come down for dinner at all and once again no one seemed to pay that any particular mind. When Crowley brought it up, Mrs. Dowling merely shrugged. Over the crunch of green beans she gave a long-suffering sigh and admitted, in the way one ‘admits’ something they’ve long been eager to share, that her boy was a moody one. Crowley should expect such reticence as the norm.

Now here he was, lying in what otherwise would have been a very comfortable bed, listening to the sound of socked feet creeping across the carpet.

He was good. Very good, actually. Warlock had managed to get the door open without a single creak, slipping through the crack he’d made so that only the slightest sliver of light got through from the hall. Crowley had seen the quick flash from the bedroom, but it would have gone unnoticed by anyone actually attempting to sleep. His footfalls were light and careful, nearly silent, all the more impressive with a decent sized snake wrapped around his arms. Of course, the moment he’d heard Warlock approaching, Crowley had let out a quiet hiss of his own. Something to ensure that the house’s latest guest wouldn’t suddenly become miffed and bite the boy. He’d given the first, near silent, when Warlock had first taken the snake up the stairs, but it wouldn’t hurt to repeat the message. Any human would have attributed the sound to the old radiator pipes stationed in each room. The snake with its tail wrapped around Warlock’s wrist heard a warning.

By the time he’d fully crept inside and made it to the foot of the bed, Crowley was just barely containing his laughter.

“Will you be slipping that snake under the covers then?”

Oh, but that was satisfying. The sharp, horrified intake of breath as Warlock realized his new nanny wasn’t as dead to the world as he’d been pretending. Crowley propped himself up with one arm, taking in the delightful image of this kid with one foot raised comically in the air, snake held snugly in his arms, his face the absolute picture of regret.

Then the expression vanished. Warlock tried—and honestly did a decent job of succeeding—to look like he had every right to be here. Crowley followed the line of thought with ease and spoke right over him.

“Is that really the best you can come up with?” he asked, grinning at the sharp ‘click!’ that sounded as Warlock’s mouth snapped shut. “It’s your house and you can go wherever you please? C’mon. You’ve got to do better than that! Besides, you still haven’t answered my question: were you planning to put her at the foot of the bed?”

Warlock blinked. “Her?”

“Yep. Females are longer and bulkier. Plus their tails taper into more of a tip.” Crowley pointed at said tail, currently hanging down near the edge of Warlock’s pajama top. It was a collared, two-piece set with blue stripes. Crowley made a mental note to buy a pair in Aziraphale’s size. “You’re decent at changing the subject. For a kid, anyway. Plans?”

This time, Crowley’s sterner tone produced a scowl. With the lights out and Warlock standing in the middle of the room, it was obvious in that moment exactly how small he was. Compared to the house. To the people in it. He seemed to shrink even further in on himself, eyes shifting directly to the carpet. He shrugged and the snake, still happily docile, shifted with him.

“Does it matter?” Warlock muttered. “Yeah. Was gonna slip her into your bed. Give you a scare, or whatever.” The scowl morphed into what might have been a tremble. Crowley couldn’t be sure. “Are you gonna tell Mother?’

“Terrible idea.”

The words startled him, and Crowley used the moment to climb fully out from beneath the covers. He’d packed a long, silk nightgown and matching robe, although he left the latter draped on the nearby chair. Rather, barefoot and eternally clumsy, Crowley crawled his way across the massive bed, relying mostly on one hand to move as the other was busy keeping hair out of his eyes. By the time he’d reached the end Warlock was staring like he was the snake come to bite him.

“Both,” Crowley clarified, swinging his legs over and drumming his heels against the side. “Telling your Mom and putting her—the snake, not your Mom—at the foot of the bed. Bad ideas all around. Especially that second one. I mean, can’t rely on that accomplishing anything, can you? What if she just decides to hang out there the rest of the night? Or falls off? Slithers beneath to find that nice, warm hiding spot and goes totally unnoticed? No. If you really want to scare a new nanny, you put the snake up around the top of her head.” Crowley mimed something long coiling around his curls. “That way you give her the fright of her life and lessen the risk of injuring the snake. Most people waking up to something cold and heavy touching their face with simply bolt. If you put her down by their feet, they’ll kick.” He nodded once, lecture complete.

Warlock picked his mouth up off the floor. “You’re weird.” He sounded suitably impressed by this revelation.

“Yep. Never been able to claim otherwise.”

“And you’re talking different too.” Little eyes narrowed as Warlock took in the whole of Crowley’s current persona: bedclothes, slouched posture, speech that, yes, wasn’t as polished as what he’d given downstairs. He rewarded the observation with a crooked grin.

“Want to know a secret?”

Of course he did. Warlock, whatever else he might be, was still just a kid. Thus, he leaned closer.

“I think _you’re_ pretty weird too.”

It was meant as a compliment and Crowley was pleased to see that Warlock took it as one.

Six-thousand years on Earth and you learned to accept that sometimes logic and probability just fell by the wayside. For a while at least. Nighttime, particularly between 2:00 and 4:00am, was one such pocket when the odd and the impossible tended to take center stage. Thus, Warlock didn’t question when his new, strange nanny nodded his head towards the door and led them out into the hall, neither bothering to don slippers. Crowley still didn’t know his way around this labyrinth of a house, but right now there were only two possible directions and, when the first led to a dead end in the form of a bathroom, he simply turned them around and followed the other path, steadfastly ignoring Warlock’s looks all the while. There was the blasted staircase. And a side door that decided it was oh so helpfully unlocked. Crowley took them out into the night, feeling the wind pick at his nightgown and the occasional insect flitting near his hair. Beside him, Warlock’s bare feet made a light shuu-shuu-shuu sound against the grass. Spread out before them were hedges and flowers, only just visible by the light of the moon. Still, Crowley could admit to a certain appreciation, even in this light. Whoever took care of the grounds had done a decent job of keeping it. Not what a demon could accomplish with the right motivation perhaps, but impressive enough. It actually reminded him a bit of St. James’ park. Minus the ducks, people, good celestial company, and the charm that came with allowing a space to run just a little bit wild. In fact...

Crowley reached a hand out and let his fingers brush against a small cluster of leaves. He shrugged at Warlock’s questioning look. “Just checking to see if they’re real.”

“Of course they’re real.”

“Why ‘of course’? You shouldn’t be assuming anything about anything. You know what they say about that, after all.”

It took a long moment of maneuvering through the gardens for Warlock to pose his question. Maybe because of that ‘stupid’ comment. That had been a bit mean.

“What do they say?” was finally muttered and Crowley ruffled the kid’s hair with pride. Warlock instinctively pulled away.

“Not sure I remember, actually. Something about being an ass. Which you do want to be, but only a very particular kind. C’mon.”

He followed the sound of running water, stepping carefully onto a small cobblestone path, letting it wind them round and round until they reached a small pond at the garden’s center. It was clearly man-made, as pristine as everything else and sporting a little fountain in the middle that spoiled the otherwise natural look. Or an attempt at natural, anyway. Crowley doubted he’d find any algae or clouds of mosquitoes here. He knelt, dipped a hand into the water, and probably could have taken a drink if he’d been so inclined.

“How’s your stomach?” Crowley asked and he couldn’t help but chuckle at the way Warlock’s body coiled with annoyance. “Yeah. I was a bit of an ass this morning, huh? But here’s the thing: I was an ass for a reason. I wanted to teach you something. Whether my totally brilliant plan actually made an impression, well, that’s something we don’t need to get into right now. The point, the point-point-point, is that it’s no fun at all if everyone is being an ass just to be cruel. You need to accomplish something, kid. Be creative. Be chaotic. But you’d better have a good reason behind each choice. Why’d you want to put a snake in your nanny’s bed?”

Warlock drew said snake closer against his chest. Crowley could see now that it was in fact a garter, but bigger than he was used to seeing in these parts. The kid really was fearless. Maybe that was a result of Mommy’s obsession with perfection. God knew (no doubt truly) that Crowley already wanted to drag some mud and creepy-crawlings into this home. Maybe Warlock’s act had been revenge for giving him exactly what he’d wanted. Or just boredom. The general chaos of any child with too much time on their hands. He’d probably never know, if only because Warlock shot off a glare and responded only with,

“You’re not my nanny.”

“Yeah, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Totally am.”

“No!”

“I’ve got the papers to prove it and everything. So yeah. Am.”

“Papers don’t count.”

“Yes they do.”

“No they don’t.”

“They do and FYI I can literally do this all night,” Crowley said, plopping himself right there in the grass. One toe slipped beneath the water and he made a little splash. “Trust me. I’m old and stubborn. You don’t want to try and out ‘no it’s not’ me. Also, put that poor thing down already.”

The garter, now hours after Crowley had first encouraged its good behavior, was starting to writhe and slither across Warlock’s shoulders, vague displeasure emanating off her like a bad smell. With the mercurial nature Crowley had only ever seen in children, Warlock’s face cleared of all anger and he obediently bent down, releasing her into one of the nearby bushes.

“I can’t keep her?” he asked, even while her tail disappeared from sight. Crowley shook his head.

“Wild animals aren’t pets. If you’re interested, though, I’ll get you a snake from a breeder.”

“Really?”

“Probably not. I need your mom to not fire me on day one.”

The scowl was back. Crowley found that he was beginning to like it.

That is, until he felt a small hand press right between his shoulder blades. He could have stopped it, of course. Demon reflexes were nothing to sneeze at. But that might have scared the kid in ways his eyes and odd advice never could. So Crowley let his window of escape slam shut, giving Warlock the freedom to heave him off of his knees and straight into the pond.

He plunged down into the depths, nearly gasping at the chill. With clenched teeth Crowley kept one hand firmly on his glasses while his legs kick spastically at the nightgown weighing him down. It was a good few seconds before he managed to find his bearings and break the surface.

“What the bloody hell was that for?!”

Warlock stood at the very edge of the pond, toes digging into the grass, his expression identical to one Crowley had once seen a neighborhood boy give to a beetle he’d managed to trap under a jar. In fact, he was leaning so far over that Crowley made an impulsive swipe for the front of his pajamas. Warlock anticipated the trick though, stumbling back, and has he did something flashed across his eyes.

The little brat was having fun.

“You said I needed a reason for the things I did,” Warlock crowed. “Well, I didn’t get to put a snake in your bed, but this was good too. I pushed you in because I wanted to. Suck it, Nanny!”

And with that he turned on his heel, racing back towards the house where only the porch lights still gleamed. Crowley watched him, just until he was sure that side door had opened and shut again, before drifting onto his back. He floated around the pond awhile, idling kicking his feet and admiring the stars.

“‘Suck it.’ Is that what the kids are saying nowadays?” he asked them. “Well... at least he called me ‘Nanny.’”

A dive for the hell of it. A dip through the fountain. Then Crowley made his own sodden way back to the house.

No matter what might come in the morning, he was eager to drag some pond water through those halls.


	4. Chapter 4

_June 8 th, 2013: six years, twenty-three days, six hours, and nineteen minutes until the end of the world. 7:01am. _

Crowley had a whole plan for his first, official morning as Nanny of the Dowling residence. He would don the purple dress he’d brought, guaranteed to make him the envy of the household. He would cook breakfast for Warlock, hoping that something other than oatmeal or cake would endear the boy to him a little more. He would feign horrified surprise at the puddles of water that still littered the side entryway. And he would welcome an angel into their midst, the household finally complete. It was going to be great.

In the end, Crowley only managed one of these things.

_At least I still look good_ , he thought, stomach aching from where he’d cracked up at Lester taking a spill on his way in from the grounds, floundering on his back like an over-sized penguin. So much for stoicism. That had been ten minutes ago. Now Crowley stood before some kid in an apron, cleaning up what looked to be the remains of a breakfast. But that couldn’t be the case because Crowley was making breakfast this morning since he didn’t know how to communicate with Warlock outside of food.

And snakes, but Crowley wasn’t inclined to ditch his cute dress for a scavenger hunt. 

“Who are you?” he demanded. The kid in question turned from where he was wiping down a plate. He was all long limbs and awkward angles, the sort of guy who everyone said would grow into his height but really, this was it. Dressed all in white, complete with an adorkable chef’s hat, he kept twisting his wrists and jiggling his arms to keep his long sleeves from falling into the soapy water.

“...Andy?” he said.

Crowley narrowed his eyes. “Are you unsure about your own name?”

“No?”

“Are you unsure about that?”

“Who are _you_?” Andy countered, along with a decent amount of water when he turned. By lunch this place would be flooded.

Before Crowley could present his captivating introduction (which, to be honest, he hadn’t come up with yet) he felt a hand on his back, a nose-assaulting perfume, and then Mrs. Dowling was sidling up to him, too close for comfort.

“There you are!” she said. “I wouldn’t have pegged you for a late riser, Nanny. That’s quite alright. You like your room, then? Excellent, excellent. I see you’ve met Andy Rollington. He’s our new cook. Got in at 5:00am, can you imagine? I’m like you when it comes to mornings. Can’t stand them. So I suppose I should commend you for your work ethic, Andy. He studied in France, you see. Very strict over there. Though I’d take a bit of slacking provided you keep making crepes like those!” She gave her concave stomach a pat. Her other arm still held hold of Crowley’s.

Andy gave a little bow. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I apologize for before. I didn’t realize you were another member of staff.”

“Hmm? Did something happen?”

Mrs. Dowling gave his arm a little squeeze, but Crowley didn’t have time to tackle her increasingly buddy-buddy nature, or Andy’s fawning. His mind was still tripping over the words ‘new cook.’

“I’m sorry,” he said slowly. Delaying the inevitable was great. “But I thought Mrs. Glass was the cook here. Am I mistaken?”

“Oh, she is. Technically. Though she’s been meaning to retire for some time now. We expected her to be with us a few more months after taking time off to find new living arrangements, but I’m afraid that her sister has unexpectedly taken ill. It’s just our luck that Andy was willing to drive in on such short notice.”

“It’s an honor to work here, My Lady. Coming in last minute was no hardship at all.” Andy inclined his head, and Crowley had the sinking feeling that it _was_ an honor. Whatever fancy French school Andy had studied at, he’d only just graduated. The kid couldn’t be older than twenty-two, maybe twenty-three, and the idea of kicking him out of a dream job turned Crowley’s stomach in unpleasant ways. Huh. Or he was just hungry. One never could be sure.

The point was, years back he and Aziraphale had decided to take the nanny and cook jobs respectively, though they’d done so under the understanding that they wouldn’t screw any human over too badly. Crowley’s task had been easy enough, considering the Dowlings hadn’t started looking for a nanny until a few weeks back and the applicants, as Lester so kindly put it, weren’t up to snuff. After scoping out the competition a bit, Aziraphale had indeed heard word of the elusive Mrs. Glass, as well as her impending retirement. Perfect, they’d thought. Just hurry the woman along a bit and take her place.

They hadn’t expected life to hurry her for them. _Or_ that Mrs. Dowling would have a replacement on speed dial.

She gave Crowley’s arm another squeeze. “We’ll be shipping her belongings to her new address in London, once that’s all settled. No worries though. I don’t expect you to do any of that grunt work. Why don’t you help me with the last of those crepes while Warlock works on his maths?”

But Crowley ducked out from her grip, muttering something about needing to freshen up before fleeing the kitchen. He just caught Mrs. Dowling’s look of surprise and Andy’s head shaking in confusion. As he rounded the corner Crowley heard a faint, “Does she always wear sunglasses indoors?”

Down the halls with no real sense of direction, opening doors at random. Crowley found a broom closet, a sitting room, something that looked like another sitting room but this time with a piano, and a staircase that led down into depths he wouldn’t want to visit even as a demon. The fifth door finally opened on a library and there was Warlock, seated at a mahogany table and surrounded by paper. There must have been twenty packets strewn about, all of them covered in basic addition and subtraction problems. Some had titles like Baby’s First Equations and Five Essential Maths Skills for Your Five-Year-Old.

Yuck.

“Phone,” Crowley said, pointing straight at Warlock. He went cross-eyed trying to look at the wielded finger.

“No.”

“Phone or I tell your mom that you’ve been doodling dinosaurs instead of practicing subtraction.”

“Let me see your eyes again or I tell Mom that you got the hallway all wet.”

Hmm. A Mexican standoff. Or rather, a demonic standoff. After a moment of weighing his options, Crowley pursed his lips and deliberately raised one hand to his glasses.

“You tell me where to find a phone in this place, don’t tell your mom about the water, and I’ll show you my eyes again plus give you one freebie question.”

Warlock was already nodding, tucking his legs up on the chair, so Crowley leaned in close and slid his glasses partway down his nose. This time he gave Warlock a decent look and was relieved when he only blinked in curiosity, pushing up on his heels to get even closer. It must be the Deceiver’s influence running through his veins. Any normal child would have run away screaming. Or at least reared back in disgust.

“Why are you so _weird_?” Warlock blurted and Crowley snapped his glasses back into place.

“Because I got lucky. Also, that was your question.”

“No—!”

“Yes. Now phone.”

Slamming back onto his rump Warlock muttered something about Lester always making the family’s calls. Good enough. Crowley was back out the door in a flash but paused at the last moment to stick his head through the doorway.

“If you really want to know why I’m weird, look up ‘coloboma.’ Surely one of these books must be a dictionary.” He waved vaguely at the collection spanning three stories, ladders dotting the back wall and a shallow balcony looming overhead. Aziraphale was going to be giddy. “That’s c-o-l-o-b-o-m-a. Try to read about that if you’re not willing to practice subtraction.” Crowley left him with that, carrying Warlock’s surprised expression firmly in his mind’s eye.

It wasn’t the first time he’d used that little fib and it certainly wouldn’t be the last. Missing tissue structures along with a rare discoloration just happened to result in snake-like eyes. That was the beauty of living in the modern age. Most people had shed their superstitions in favor of science. Everything had a rational explanation, even if you didn’t fully understand it. All Crowley needed to do was chuck enough medical-ish terms at someone and they’d eventually lose interest, overburdened by the technical knowledge they’d never asked for. Of course, there was the one time he’d unknowingly tried it on an actual doctor and made the whole thing so much worse, but _c’est la vie_. He’d take the occasional blunder over the pitch-forks and witch burnings any day.

Besides, keeping this little rascal intrigued could only work in his favor. He might be young, but a challenge here and there would do him good. There was much that Crowley wanted to teach Warlock, and none of it had to do with biology or maths.

Correction: much that _they_ wanted to teach him.

“I need a phone.”

One eyebrow crawled up into Lester’s hair at the demanding tone, but Crowley had wasted a good fifteen minutes looking for what should have been a very common object in a very large household. Finding the tiny room Mr. Butler had crawled into took another five. So yes, he was a bit short on temper. Crowley thought he might have to start laying down some sort of law—which of the help really had the power here—but after only a second Lester sighed. He put down the paper he’d been reading and led Crowley back into the maze.

“I should have warned you yesterday,” he said, taking oddly careful steps. “We keep only two phones in the house: one in the kitchen in case of emergencies” (he’d started there dammit!) “and one in Mr. Dowling’s office. You’re free to make any calls you wish, but the door must remain open at all times.”

“Because...?”

“Because Mrs. Dowling grew into the habit of wanting to know who exactly her husband chooses to speak with.”

“Ah.”

Tale as old as time. Song as old as... well, longer than rhyme really. Crowley couldn’t say he was surprised. Wealth this vast and a wife this starved for attention usually pointed in one direction. Nor had it escaped his notice that Mr. Dowling hadn’t made an appearance yet, that Mrs. Dowling hardly seemed to care, that Warlock hadn’t asked for his father. He might turn his nose up at a new nanny, but he certainly hadn’t asked for a specific, paternal replacement.

“He’s away on business,” Lester said, seeming to read his mind. “We don’t expect Mr. Dowling back for some time. His ambassadorial duties require that he travel a great deal. Not quite appropriate for a young son and a delicate wife.”

Crowley gave out a ‘delicate’ cough at that description and Lester threw him a look.

“It’s been very hard on them,” he insisted and the two of them went on traversing the halls, content to let that particular fib stretch between them.

In time they came to an office that, Crowley realized with a shock, was the same one he’d spent hours in yesterday afternoon, signing over his time and sanity to this family. There, prominently on the desk, a mere foot from where he’d rested his hands drawing sigils into the wood was the phone. The _blessed_ phone. Crowley resisted the urge to turn and start banging his head against the wall.

“I think I might hate this place,” he said instead and was startled when Lester let out a low chuckle.

“Well... you get used to it, or you leave. Do you have any idea how long you might stay, Nanny Ashtoreth?”

It was the first time he’d used the ‘Nanny’ moniker and Crowley didn’t find it nearly as weird as he assumed he would have. Rather, there was a level of sincerity there that cut through any jokes he might have made about women mothering grown men. For just an instant, Crowley saw the entire picture neatly laid out from Lester’s perspective: head of a household that somehow felt isolated despite all the staff. Above the maids in terms of status, always below the family, with no one to talk to except your boss, your mini boss, and a now absent cook. Then along comes a new nanny who might, if you play your cards right, turn into a friend.

How disgustingly mushy. A part of Crowley wanted to cry and he firmly beat it back with a mental broom.

“I intend to stay until the end times, dear,” he said. Might as well be honest. It drew another chuckle from Lester and as he bent forward Crowley placed a hand along his back and drew it downward, erasing the pain from the spill he’d taken. “Only the end of the world could make me abandon young Warlock and the rest of you.”

Lester blinked, Crowley stepped inside, and he shooed the dumbfounded butler back to his own work. He really did have a call to make. Couldn’t go wasting the whole day with compliments and sunshine.

Throwing himself on top of the desk, Crowley kicked his legs as he dialed a number he’d had memorized for well over fifty years now. Aziraphale picked up on the second ring.

“Please don’t tell me you’ve killed the child already.”

Crowley scowled. “Warlock is fine. He’s reading books, actually.”

“Oh!” That change in tone really was insulting. “I assumed you must have made some sort of horrendous mistake if you were calling me—” Crowley could easily picture Aziraphale checking his pocket-watch. “A mere five hours before I’m due to arrive. Did you want me to bring you something from the bookshop? Did you enjoy the sandwich? I can certainly bring more sandwiches. I wouldn’t be much of a cook if I arrived to an interview empty-handed. You have set up the interview, haven’t you?”

Groaning, Crowley slid until he was lying fully across the desk, kicking a few papers and other miscellaneous objects off as he went. He placed the phone on top of his stomach and then pillowed his head on his arm.

“That’s the problem. I didn’t even get to suggest you for an interview. They’ve already got a cook.”

“Yes. Who is retiring. We’ve been over this.”

“No, no, there’s another cook after that cook and he’s already here!”

There was silence down the line. Rubbing a hand up under his glasses Crowley eventually followed that with, “And he’s a redhead.”

“...Ah.”

Of course he was going to do right by his own.

Aziraphale didn’t sound terribly put out, which was rather surprising considering Crowley expected a hefty dose of panic as their plans unraveled right at the start. Instead all he got was a series of familiar, soothing sounds that he realized was Aziraphale making tea.

“I’ll admit that’s rather disappointing,” he said, just as a quickly miracled teapot began to hiss. “I’d quite hoped to delve back into baking for a while. I’ve been practicing, you know. Mostly kouign amann and macarons, but also those horrid ‘PB&Js’ you kept insisting I serve the boy.”

“How do you practice peanut butter and jelly sandwiches?”

“Though I suppose I’ll simply have to find something else to do there.” Aziraphale pointedly ignored the jibe, and a long slurp of tea followed.

“You can’t _bake_ PB&Js.”

“Nothing else for it.”

Crowley groaned. “What? It’s not like this place is a hubbub of activity. We’re in the middle of nowhere with a staff that feels like it’s suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. We’ve got a snotty head butler that doesn’t seem to do much butlering, this new cook, maids embodying the old rule of being seen and not heard, and me. What do you want? To tell Mrs. Dowling that her son is such a little horror I need a backup nanny just to deal with him?” Crowley paused. “Actually. I’m pretty sure she’d believe that.”

A severe tutting came down the line as Crowley dramatically swept more things off the desk, making room for him to splay out starfish style. As far as desks went, he’d lounged on worse.

“Surely you’re exaggerating. I know the boy is...” Aziraphale decided against finishing that sentence. “Well. The point is that for now, he should by all accounts appear as just a normal, human child. Yes?”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, and which do I put my money on causing more chaos? The demon or the human child? C’mon, Aziraphale. You remember that brat who spilled juice on your copy of _Jane Eyre_.”

“Hm.” So much horror embedded into one tiny syllable.

“And the kid who left whatever that sticky substance was around the bookshop. The one who kicked you in the shins? The one who just straight up screamed and her dad clearly couldn’t give a blessed—”

“Yes, yes. You’ve made your point.”

“He’s the same. _Worse._ Zira, I’ve been in this house nearly twenty-four hours and the kid has already challenged me over breakfast, displayed enough stubbornness to make himself sick—literally—tried to sneak a snake into my bed, and dumped me straight into the...”

Crowley trailed off. He was parallel to the windows in Mr. Dowling’s office, one of which looked out onto the garden with its winding path and pond. A wonderful idea popped into his head. Probably stupid too. Wonderfully stupid.

“Crowley? Crowley are you there? Don’t tell me this _foolish_ thing has died on me.”

“Still here,” he murmured, staring at the greenery. It was another bright, beautiful day, everything fresh after yesterday’s rain. Crowley sat up to better take in the view. “You should still come, though. Now, actually. I…”

He didn’t finish the thought. Probably didn’t need to.

“Really? Oh, well then, of course, dear boy. I’ll be there in just a jiffy. What did you have in mind though? What’s your plan?”

Plan? He had no plan. Not really. Not anymore. A single day and he already felt the weight of this stupid project beginning to bear down, all the complications and surprises and _work_ he’d have to do. It was really rather disgusting. All Crowley knew for sure was that it was about time he started sharing the load.

“Nothing much,” he sighed, twirling the cord around his fingers. “Just that the Dowlings might find use for a gardener.”

***

Warlock had successfully looked up coloboma and, while he struggled with the vocabulary a great deal, had managed to get the general gist based on pictures. By the time Crowley returned to the library he was drawing dinosaurs with slit-like pupils. Crowley, in his oh-so-polite nanny tone, commented that one of them looked like a T-Rex had taken a liking to a cat and then they’d had their own little Warlocks together. Without looking up from the paper, Crowley was informed that cats didn’t exist during the Jurassic period. Crowley fired back a little ditty about the pakasuchus and Warlock rolled his eyes.

Crowley also pointed to a drawing at random. “He should have feathers.”

“Shut up.”

Surprisingly, Crowley did. Because ten minutes after their phone call was completed he felt the heat that had arrived at the edge of the Dowlings’ property. That’s what Aziraphale always felt like: warmth, fire, toastiness, sweat, humidity, the equal potential for comfort as well as burns. His grace was an old friend even at the best of times but now, with an Antichrist growing bored and years laid out on the horizon, Crowley felt like he might just weep at its sudden arrival.

“The cavalry is here,” he said.

Warlock poked him with his pen. “Huh?”

“C’mon,” and Crowley scooped the screaming monster into his arms, all but dashing out of the library. Warlock made a real commotion about it, all _how dare you touch me_ this and _put me down this instant_ that, but Crowley was no fool and the little hands wrapped snugly around his neck told a different story than his words. They passed the smells of Andy’s cooking now rising from the kitchen, ignored Mrs. Dowling’s hail from another room, and briefly caught Lester’s eye from the window, one eyebrow cocked in surprise. Warlock watched his little family recede as Crowley carried him down the main path towards the gate, heels clicking satisfactorily on the stones.

There, puttering through a miraculously unlocked entrance, was a welcome and familiar figure.

Well, almost familiar.

“What the deuce did he do to himself?” Crowley muttered. Warlock squinted, then began to snicker as they got close enough for a look.

Hunched shoulders. Buck teeth. Sideburns, for heaven’s sake. Crowley very nearly dropped his charge in shock when he saw the sunburned face and pocketed skin. Is _this_ what Aziraphale thought gardeners looked like?

He leveled a glare and hoped his point came across. Crowley only got the flash of a smile in return.

“Who are you?” Warlock demanded, finally heaving and plopping to the ground. He stared up at Aziraphale in great suspicion. “You look funny.” His eyes tracked back to Crowley. “You _both_ look funny.”

“Two peas in a pod, then!” Aziraphale exclaimed. He went down on one knee, removing his hat in what he probably thought was a gallant gesture. “I’m Brother Francis—”

_Brother Francis?_

“—and I’m hopin’ to be your new gardener, young sir. You wouldn’t be Master Warlock now would you? Surely not! I was told he was just a little tyke, but you’re all grown! Nearly anyways. Why, I’m guessin’ you’re too old now to care about such things as pets and such, aren’t you?”

“Pets?” Warlock asked, eyes briefly lighting up. Crowley half expected Aziraphale to drag another snake out from behind his back—and wouldn’t he have something to say about _that_ —but instead from his pocket came a tiny snail, its shell glinting brightly in the morning sun. Warlock eyed it with the same adoration he’d shown his new caretakers. Which was to say, none.

Aziraphale, however, wasn’t discouraged. “You see, young sir, Nanny and I are indeed well acquainted and she told me you had a real love of animals. How marvelous that is! I thought you might like meetin’ my friend Sister Snail. She’s not a home kind of pet, not the sort to keep in one’s room, but you can love her all the same. Isn’t she just a beautiful example of one of God’s many creatures?”

Crowley wanted to gag. He kept silent though, bound by his own promise, waiting to see if a goody-goody approach really made any difference. Then, at exactly 9:04am, Warlock looked up at Aziraphale, shrugged, and said, “I like snails, I guess. They’re tasty.”

He proceeded to turn and pelt back towards the house, leaving an angel and demon watching him go.

Brother Francis melted away. “He’s not supposed to want to _eat_ them,” Aziraphale said. He set the snail gently down in the grass, nudging her back towards the pond.

“You eat snails, angel. You’ve probably eaten more snails yourself than all of humanity combined. Seriously though? The kid will eat snails but not oatmeal?” Crowley bent his back with a groan.

“I haven’t eaten that many,” came the muttered reply. “But I’m also not an Antichrist destined to destroy all living things. Really. Eat sister snail? That doesn’t bode well.”

Crowley snorted. “That’s the one thing we can both agree on. Still…” He stared at the retreating figure, growing smaller with each passing second.

“Still?”

“It’s only been a day. There’s still time, angel. Too much time really. We’ll think of something.”

“Hmm. I daresay we’ll have to.”

With the grounds sweeping out around them and no one but God herself to see, Crowley slipped his arm through Aziraphale’s, savoring the squeeze he was granted in return. Together, the two of them also set off towards the house, following in Warlock’s footsteps.

One day was behind them. Just two thousand one-hundred and ninety left to go.


	5. Epilogue

_June 25 th, 2020: 1 year, 359 days, 2 hours, and 18 minutes past the end of the world. 3:38pm. _

Warlock stepped out of the town car, shielding his eyes from the sun. It seemed like London had been unnaturally sunny of late. Ever since last summer. Like the heavens had opened up and blessed them with a bit of unexpected peace, deciding that for this year and this year alone there would be light. Almost miraculous you could say. If you believed in that sort of stuff.

He didn’t. What Warlock _did_ believe in was his own ability to improve a situation. His birthday was coming up—the exciting tumble into twelve-years-old—and he knew by now that if he wanted anything other than a boring kid’s party and the smothering of relatives, he’d have to go out and retrieve it himself. So he’d gotten Mother to free Lester up for the afternoon, driving them into London for a bit of a shopping trip. Warlock wasn’t sure what he was looking for, only that he’d know it when he saw it. Surely the city had to have _something_ that would prove a worthy present to himself. Anything to stave off the endless swaths of boredom.

Really, Warlock had felt bored for most of his life. Well... okay. He _thought_ he’d been bored, though in retrospect things had been pretty good for a stretch. Nothing to brag about, but better than it had been in the last two years. Mother hadn’t wanted to get rid of his Nanny, insisting that a mind as brilliant as hers could help him through high school and beyond, but she’d been adamant that she needed to move on. Not to another child though. Nanny had sat him down beside the pond and explained in her blunt, mildly offensive way that he wasn’t to feel sad about this. Not a suggestion, but a demand. She wasn’t abandoning him for another kid, simply leaving the job for a while. _It has nothing to do with you, little horror._

Except that Warlock had gotten the idea that she was lying during that last part. Just a niggling sense that he’d picked up after years of Nanny telling white lies to Mother, teaching him how to tell them to Father, and, he suspected, telling them to herself at times. In the moment after she’d finished the claim Warlock assumed that it was about him. In the sense that it was his fault. It was only when Nanny bent and pressed a long, honest kiss against his forehead that Warlock faltered. Her, “I hope I get to see you again. Somehow,” sealed the deal. If Nanny wanted to see him, she simply would. That was a fact. Which meant that something else was keeping her from him... and Warlock didn’t like to think about what kind of thing would not just oppose his Nanny, but _win_.

That had been nearly two years ago. In the immediate aftermath he’d become a little obsessed with finding her. It was all under the guise of polite indifference. He wanted to practice thank-you notes and send one to Nanny. Shouldn’t they send a holiday gift as well _? What if something were to happen to you and Father, Mother—hypothetically, of course—and I needed to contact an adult that I trust. Shouldn’t I have Nanny’s number? Or at least a forwarding address? I’m nearly twelve, Mother. Hardly a child anymore._

Maturity had nothing to do with it though, nor the expectation that Warlock would simply get whatever he wanted. There was no forwarding address to spoil him with. No number to call and no hint as to where Nanny had moved on to. Warlock had thought then to speak with Brother Francis, as they’d always been close, only to find that his leave was just as mysterious. The two of them had simply disappeared as if they’d never existed at all and if it weren’t for Mother and the household staff, a part of Warlock would have truly thought he’d imagined them.

Really, logically it made an awful sort of sense. If Warlock had written Nanny as a character he’d have been told she was too unrealistic, at best, and utterly laughable at worst. What kind of caretaker taught their charge how to sneak across a level rooftop and which plants could become poisons with proper care? Brother Francis was no better. Yes, the buck-toothed gardener who helped turtles cross the garden’s expanse. It was like something out of a bad storybook and if Mother ever sent him to one of the therapists she was always talking about Warlock was sure they’d have a thing or two to say about his upbringing.

He hadn’t imagined them though. Money transfers, new plots in the garden, and the occasional scar all reminded him. But reminders couldn’t sustain an investigation for long and Warlock could admit, to himself even if to no one else, that he was still a kid with very little control over his own life. So he’d grown sullen. Then resigned. Then finally bored. With the exception of last year’s birthday party and Father’s meeting with that strange homeless man, life was all around dull. Heading into London was just another hopeless attempt to change that.

Yet obviously the world liked proving Warlock wrong. For he’d no sooner completed that thought than he spotted the couple across the street.

He knew they were a couple because... just because. The way they moved said it all. The last few months had given Warlock just enough height to see over the car and as Lester looked for his pocketbook in the backseat (he wouldn’t find it. Warlock had palmed it as they left, planning to “find” it in the street later today and put the grumpy butler in his good graces), Warlock stared at the two men, _something_ buzzing at him. An annoying sense a familiarity. Like a gnat that he knew was nearby but couldn’t see.

Except that Father was an asshole who still thought the queer community was ruining the sanctity of marriage. Never mind that Warlock had known he was cheating on Mother since he was five. He’d never met a gay couple before, wouldn’t have even learned differently if it weren’t for Nanny, so a moment he just stood dumbfounded, wondering why these two looked so _damn_ familiar.

It really was how they moved, he decided. Warlock watched as the older man, dressed in a horrendously outdated suit, puttered around the entrance to some bookshop. He looked like a character out of a bad sitcom, patting down pockets in search of something and sadly shaking his head when he didn’t find it. The other, tall and lean and vaguely goth, shook his head as well, but Warlock could read the fond exasperation in the gesture. He leaned against the building’s stone and snapped his fingers, causing the other man to smile. The door was open now, apparently, and as they slipped inside that familiarity niggled, wormed, positively _ate_ at Warlock until he felt like he was crawling out of his skin. It was the way the portly man gestured and the hand the other instinctively put to the small of his back; how he sauntered in with such confidence while his companion shuffled about. Warlock had seen these interactions somewhere before. They were almost like...

_That’s it_ , he thought, just as Lester cursed softly and gave up his search. _They look like Nanny and Brother Francis. She walked like that and he always made those fluttering motions with his hands. Jesus, they could be twins!_

Down to the last glance and quirk of their eyebrow. Warlock could still just see them through the bookshop window, speaking animatedly just like his former tutors once had. That was Brother Francis, cradling a book to his chest just as he’d once held a rabbit caught in their fence, the little thing miraculously unharmed. And that was Nanny fiddling with—

“Sunglasses,” Warlock murmured.

“Hm?” Lester shielded his eyes from the sun, peering at his charge right up against the side of the road. “Did you say something, sir?”

The glasses cinched it. Warlock didn’t care if Brother Francis was suddenly more handsome, or if Nanny now looked like a guy. That was them, just a few yards away, and the impossible knowledge of it suddenly kick-started his heart and made his hands start to sweat. Warlock took an instinctive step forward and it was only the blare of a horn that kept him from walking out into the street. He dimly registered Lester’s concerned shout and the hand that snagged the back of his shirt. Lester had the right idea before. The sunny day was too bright. He needed glasses like Nanny’s to see.

“ _Are you okay?_ ” a whip of his shoulders told Warlock it wasn’t the first time Lester had asked him that. His face swam back into focus. “Oh good lord, please don’t be falling ill. Your mother will have my head...”

“I’m fine,” Warlock said and was shocked to realize he was. He was fine. He was _great_. Because all at once, in the most unexpected of ways, life was interesting again. All he’d have to do to sustain that was walk across the street.

He’d never been more sure of anything in his life.

“Let’s go,” he said, already pulling Lester along. Except now he had to wait for the light to change, dammit.

“...go?”

“To the bookstore.”

“To...?”

It was clear he didn’t understand. Sure, he’d always been an avid reader, but it also wasn’t like him to pass up more thrilling opportunities. Warlock could suddenly see what he must look like through Lester’s eyes: a spoiled child standing before the whole of London, the city at his fingertips... and choosing the dusty shop straight ahead.

It made him laugh, a bright sound that was immediately lost to the city’s noise. He loved the contrast, the unexpectedness of it. If you’re going to cause trouble do it for a good reason. That’s what Nanny had taught him. Suddenly, causing a spot of mischief for them both seemed like the most important thing in the world.

So he ran. Why not? Warlock dodged straight out into the line of cars, heedless of the traffic, confident that nothing bad could befall him here. Not with his Nanny in view. Not when Brother Francis leaned close. Whatever horrible things might happen to eleven, soon to be twelve-year old boys… they were long behind them.

Warlock set foot on the other side and opened the door.


End file.
